Acquired Waifs and Vagabonds
by Veritara
Summary: "Friends? Is that the right word for the people you acquire?" A series of one-shots through the years, each featuring the pivotal moment that another person joined the Van der Linde gang. Featuring the curious couple and their unruly son, drunkenness, scores gone wrong, guest-starring Davey and Mac, and Dutch smoking too many cigars.
1. Hosea Matthews

Ages of characters involved in the chapter. Yes, I know some aren't strictly canon, but they fit my headcanon better dammit.

Dutch: 23

Hosea: 34

* * *

 **Hosea Matthews**

 **1878**

* * *

The high sun beat down over the open courtyards of Victory Square. Fountains jetted water into the air and the small city surrounding him felt as though it were pressing in on him. The docks and false freedom of the lake gave off the pungent stink of fish and salt, even at this distance. People filled the streets, ever the more as the church down the way had just let out its service.

Dutch van der Linde flicked the end of his cigarette and grimaced. Back to work. He had made decent progress in the morn but not nearly as much as he had hoped for. A hundred dollars was more than most passersby made in a month, but Dutch aimed for it by the day.

He straightened his cap and waved the newspaper high above his head, calling out baffling yet believable headlines. The newspaper gig, though it worked well enough, was exhausting. The ink blackened his fingers and his routine wrung his voice raw. Still, he hadn't tried it for a while now and it was one of his more reliable schemes. He loathed it. It felt almost like honest work.

He caught the nearby attention of a few men.

"What's this about a war in the east?" asked one of them, coming near.

Dutch forced a smile. Three was too many to take at once. "Read to find out, gentlemen," he said with a great deal more patience than he had.

"Oh, don't bother with it, Adam," his companion said.

Adam handed over fifty cents and gave Dutch a parting smile.

Dutch dropped his own as soon as the man left, giving himself a moment to scowl at the man's back before jingling the dimes in his pocket. They rustled nicely with a thicker billfold, though. That businessman earlier had been a right easy fool. The reminder of his wavering luck spurred him on. Surely it would change again.

Aside from the honest dimes and dollars thrown at him, he managed to filch another fifty in crisp new bills over the next few hours. It brought his grand total over a hundred. By exactly fifteen cents. Even so, it wasn't a bad haul.

Abandoning his spiel, he let his eyes wander over the crowd for easy pickings. He was near enough out of newspapers that he could just write them off. That is, if there was anyone interesting about. The sky darkened, dusk giving way to night, and bringing with it a new set of folk. Young couples, utterly absorbed in each other. New mothers pushing their children along. Families taking a post-dinner stroll. Yet no one seemed particularly worthwhile. He could risk the love-birds by the docks, but they weren't likely to be very good.

"Hello, my fine fellow. Yes, you there."

Dutch raised his eyes to the curious man who called for him. Tall with neatly clipped blonde hair, a man grown, with a wedding ring on his finger. His coat was tailored, made of fine black wool, which a blue silk scarf tucked into, and his leather shoes shone brightly. Despite his youth, crows' feet etched around his eyes. The broad smile he wore made Dutch give his first genuine smile of the day.

Rich fools were his favourite sort.

"Can I help you, sir?" asked Dutch. He edged very slightly towards the street. As expected, the man followed his moves and stood before the darkness of the alley.

"Oh, yes, I believe you can," the man said. "A good friend of mine just got engaged and wanted me to set a message to the papers. Do you think you could take it down for me?"

Bewildered, Dutch took out a stub of a pencil and his own ledger. If it could win him a bonus mark today, a little more play-acting wasn't the worse thing.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Laurence. Aaron Laurence," the man said. "And the friend is a Bart Edwards, his lucky new fiancee—oh, she's a marvelous girl. They met at old Williams College, down the river. Both studying theatre, of all things! I always told him, Bart, I said, Bart, if you want to lie in the mud all your life dreaming of better wages go ahead, but the actor's life is not for me. And he said, at least while I'm lying in the mud, I'll be looking at the stars."

Laurence and Dutch chuckled.

"I've known people like that," said Dutch, finishing up the last notes on what Laurence had told him.

Laurence waved a hand and scoffed. "Optimists and dreamers — aren't they the worst?"

Dutch shrugged. "Oh, I don't know about that," he said. "It's the most human thing there is, to look around your life and want something better, believe things can change."

"Still," said Laurence, "we are all the authors of our own good fortune."

Dutch smiled, losing himself to the sentiment. "Mr Laurence, I couldn't agree more."

"Ah yes, well, where was I?" he asked himself. Holding back a sigh, Dutch returned his dull pencil to paper. Laurence moved behind Dutch, reading the notes over his shoulder to refresh himself. "Oh, yes, college. Bart proposed when they got their first acting job, you see. A tale of Romeo & Juliet, just a small town production, mind. Terrible shame he had to play Mercutio. He watched—"

"Pardon me?"

Dutch whipped his head up from the ledger, his mouth torn between a smile and hanging open dumbly. The man quickly withdrew his hand from Dutch's pocket and took a step back.

"Yes?" asked Laurence mildly.

"Were you—Were you trying to rob me?"

Laurence smiled that same charming smile. "Are you trying to say you were not about to rob my own good self?"

Dutch laughed, pocketing the pencil and dropping his ledger behind him on the last newspapers. "When you walk around alone, at night, dressed like that?" He nodded bitterly, sucking at his teeth, understanding a moment before the man explained himself. He had been played.

The man concealed his smile poorly, adopting a thoughtful expression. "Ah, yes, the perfect mark. The ideal bait for a brash thief who's had a lucky day and wants to push himself. What's your name?"

"Ben Walsh," said Dutch. "And you?"

The man leaned against the wall, smirking. "If you want to play at that, then I'm Aaron Laurence."

Dutch and the man held eyes for a few brief moments. Dutch had certainly met a number of hustlers the last ten years since he had left home. But never had he met an honest thief, one who seemed apt for conversation. An air of suspicion always hung between criminals, he had learned, but he thought maybe he could break this one. There was something terribly earnest about the man's eyes.

"Dutch van der Linde," he said at last, extending a hand.

"Hosea Matthews," the man said. He shook hands with a firm, warm grip.

"Why don't we take a bit of a walk, Mr Matthews?" said Dutch.

The man raised an eyebrow and chuckled darkly. "You wouldn't be planning to kill me and dump my body in the lake, would you?"

Dutch gathered up his supplies of the day. "Oh, not at all," he said. "We're young men with pockets full of ill-gotten gains, with a night open to us for fun and frivolity. Is that not reason enough?"

The man considered it and nodded. "Very well, Mr Van der Linde. Lead the way into this so-called fun you speak of."


	2. Arthur Morgan

Ages of characters involved in the chapter. Yes, I know some aren't strictly canon, but they fit my headcanon better dammit.

Arthur: 13

Dutch: 24

Hosea: 35

* * *

 **Arthur Morgan**

 **1879**

* * *

Against the hard autumn chill, Arthur only reluctantly stamped out his last cigarette and blew out the last of the smoke. It was probably that time of year that he should have a talk with a hotel manager or saloon owner. Make some sort arrangement for shelter in the winter. Didn't help that most didn't want to take on a kid, or that many places in town knew him as a thief and liar.

It was probably time to skip town again. Jump a train north and try out the next settlement.

Just one more job, and some food for the journey.

Arthur huddled in the alley. A small dirty boy was invisible to common folk. Their eyes glossed right over him, from wall to wall as though he and the alley didn't exist. Made watching easier. But he lost his patience when his fingers started to numb and he stood. If he left before dawn, he could probably stay in the Markam barn again.

He was just about to turn out of town when he spotted them. Gunslingers. Even if they weren't outlaws, one of them at least wore a pair of pistols. Silvery steel with pearl handles, shining in the streetlights.

Arthur veered off course and tailed them through the streets. One, tall and lean, a business sort of man in long woollen coat. The other, a touch shorter and younger, with dark hair and those guns. Arthur had a good deal the general store owner. He would buy whatever Arthur fished out of pockets and trade him some food, but he had never brought in a prize like this.

They ducked into the saloon. Arthur waited as long as he dared before following them in. A lot of the regulars knew him and, while the bartender refused to serve a kid anything stronger than sparkling water, he had let Arthur sleep on the floor during the last rainstorm. Arthur slipped between the patrons, eyeing the two gunslingers as they leaned against the edge of a bar.

"I don't know, Dutch," one of them said.

"I'm telling you," insisted Dutch. "This don't have to be our way of things. Land in the west is getting peddled away and I'm sure you and I can manage to round up enough pennies to buy a patch of it."

"And then, what? Build a farm?" He shook his head. "I've never gone that far west before, let alone live off the land."

Dutch handed his friend a drink. "More like a ranch," he said. "Our own piece of paradise. Build a life, a better, purer life for ourselves. Everyday the product of our own sweat, building a world with our own hands. No more—" Dutch tossed down the drink and searched for a word. "—nonsense. No more government or lawmen. No more rich men who hoard their gold and build empires on the backs of the poor. No more…"

And on and on he went.

So absorbed he was in his own voice, Arthur slipped along the bar, hugging under the lip. Those guns were even finer than he had thought. The barrels were engraved, some fancy design work. The holsters too, a deep dark leather, with some nice stitching on them. But they were attached to his belt. He didn't have to push his luck so far. Even trying for both guns could be a disaster.

Arthur swallowed his anxiety and forced his hands to still. He pinched the grip of the gun, holding the holster steady with his other hand. It slid out, almost perfectly. A tiny hitch. But then, it was free.

Heart racing, Arthur ran a thumb over the etching work and couldn't help but beam. He slid back against the edge of the bar, looking to the dark night. Slow and steady, don't ruin it now. Even if he had to sleep in the alley tonight, it was worth it. It had to be. This was a fortune. To him, at least.

"Thank you, sir," said Dutch in a hard voice. Coins danced on the table. "Have a fine night."

A strong hand grabbed a fistful of his jacket. Arthur lurched against the grip, his heart racing like a trapped rabbit.

"But I believe it best that we're leaving," finished Dutch without missing a beat. "Isn't that right, Hosea?"

Arthur fought the hold and quickly realised that the gunslinger had only his coat, but not his shirt in hand. Arthur let the gun clatter to the ground and slipped from the coat. He snatched the pistol and bolted from the saloon, a gale of laughter following him.

He panted into the chilled air as he ran. Arthur pushed past the lingering people on the street and rounded the corner, criss-crossing through a mess of alleyways. Hopefully he could lose whatever pursuers he gained. Footsteps echoed behind him. But not the crowd of police he had expected. Only one. Maybe two.

Arthur ran harder, but his stomach cramped and ached. He grit his teeth and pushed through it. He hadn't had a proper meal in a few days, just scraps here and there. It had been enough to sustain himself, but he felt the chase eat into what little energy he had.

He made another turn and found the fire escape ladder. It zig-zagged across the biggest building in town. He climbed the rungs two at a time and clamoured up to the first landing. Arthur glanced back behind him. He was right. Those two gunslingers were right on his tail. He pulled up the bottom piece of the ladder so they couldn't follow him.

Clutching a weary stitch in his side, Arthur started on the stairs to the roof. He wanted a little more distance before they thought they were in shooting range.

"Boy, just hold on a moment!"

"We just want to talk to you."

Warily, Arthur leaned over the edge of the railing. "Look, you have two guns, mister," he called down. "Way I see it—"

The dark one — Dutch — waved a hand. "Keep it, boy," he said. "It don't matter to me."

"What's your name?" asked the other one.

"You first."

He nodded and pointed to himself before clapping his friend on the shoulder. "I'm Hosea Matthews and this is Dutch van der Linde."

Arthur hesitated. Neither reached for their guns, or seemed to be looking for a way to get to him. They didn't even seem mad.

"Arthur Morgan," he said finally.

"Pleased to meet you, boy," said Dutch with a smile. "Now, how would you like a nice hot meal and a room for the night?"

"What's the catch?"

"Just talk to me for a few minutes," he said. He held his hands up in an offer of peace. "That's all I ask. Feel free to point my own gun at me all the while."

Arthur turned a keen eye on them. What few strangers that had offered help before had always wanted something. More often than not, something he wasn't willing to give them. And he had to run. But now, at least, he had a gun.

He let down the rest of the ladder and slid down the rails in a smooth jump. Getting to their level, he clicked the safety off and pointed the gun at each in turn. The tall one — Hosea — looked rather nervous, but Dutch stared at Arthur pleasantly, his dark eyes honest.

"What you wanna talk about?" asked Arthur. His voice held a lot firmer than he felt.

Dutch smiled, as though something entertained him dearly. "I can't tell you how many times I've had someone feel for my pockets. Thieves, urchins, the government. Even this one here." He jerked a thumb at his companion. "No one's ever gotten anything out. No one except one humble orphan in the middle of nowhere, who dared to take a gun from its holster in a crowded bar. You are bold as brass, boy. You have—"

"What you trying to say?" snapped Arthur.

"I'm offering you a place," said Dutch plainly. He advanced, despite the gun held on him. "I'll feed you, keep you safe, keep you warm and dry, give you a life. You have my word to it."

"And what is it you want in return, then?" Arthur felt the gun waver in his hands as he dared to think on the offer.

"Loyalty," whispered Dutch. His smile and voice turned kind, almost fatherly. A sort a smile Arthur desperately wanted to trust. "Work for me. Pick the pockets I tell you, help me and Hosea run jobs, and you'll never need fear again."

Arthur didn't need consider it for longer than a second. He handed over the gun and Dutch slipped it back into its holster. Arthur's breath hitched in his throat and he could only nod his agreement, not trusting himself to speak. His eyes swam, blurry and salty and wet.

"It's alright, son," said Dutch. "Come here now." He took Arthur into his arms and Arthur felt a hand at the back of his head as the first sob broke through his shoulders. "You're safe."


	3. Josiah Trelawny

Ages of characters involved in the chapter. Yes, I know some aren't strictly canon, but they fit my headcanon better dammit.

Arthur: 14

Dutch: 25

Trelawny: 31

Hosea: 36

* * *

 **Josiah Trelawny**

 **1880**

* * *

Arthur squinted and took aim down the revolver.

"Don't shoot yet!" yelped Hosea. He ducked low and set the last of the empty cans in the scattered crooks of tree branches.

Dutch chuckled and clapped Arthur on the shoulder. "Have another go, son," he said. "Try not to aim so long. Trust your eye and hand to know where the gun will shoot."

Hosea hurried back behind them.

Arthur nodded, licking his lips. His ears had only reddened as the day wore on. He had lost count of the amount of bullets and dented cans he had wasted over the last months. Dutch and Hosea were too patient with him by far. With a rifle, Arthur was alright. Not half as good as either of them, but he could hunt well enough. But proper gunslinging? He felt like he was only around to make the two of them look better.

Arthur holstered the gun and set his eyes on the nearest can. A corn one, it sat in the gnarled crook of a Y-shaped tree. In a breath, he snatched the gun from his hip and snapped off a shot.

Like all others, it whizzed off into the woods.

"God damnit," swore Arthur. He stowed the pistol again and spat.

Dutch put a hand on his shoulder again. He shrugged it off. "Why don't you do it, then?" demanded Arthur, rounding on him.

Dutch sighed and, without taking his eyes off Arthur, withdrew one of his pearl-handled guns and shot twice. A pair of shrill pings echoed in the clearing and Arthur dropped his glare.

"It appears now Mother Nature is spitting miracles at the most unlikely of her children, if a child may be spurred from the loins of two men."

The odd sing-songy voice came from the path behind them. Arthur scowled down it. This spot wasn't nearly as secluded as he liked and already a few riders had disturbed them, calling out greetings and such. This man was no rider, though. He might have come up on a regular dusty bay steed, but it looked like he belonged more on a show horse. He wore a tall velvet hat and tails, with a curly moustache and a shiny satin vest patterened with gold and red flowers. Any other time, Arthur would've tried to pick that silver chain from his pocket.

He approached them with a broad smile and lept deftly from his horse, striding through the mud to embrace Hosea in a tight hug and chuckle.

"And who are you?" asked Dutch in a warning voice Arthur knew too well.

The strange man bowed with a flourish and put his hands on his hips.

Despite the warm greeting, Hosea grimaced. "This is Josiah Trelawny, a former business partner of mine," he said.

Trelawny reached out a hand to Dutch. "And it seems to me, I have been traded up," he said.

Dutch took the hand and gave a friendly smile, but his voice stayed hard. "Dutch van der Linde and this is Arthur Morgan."

Trelawny smiled again, but it didn't touch his dark eyes which scrutinized Arthur as though trying to measure him for a coffin. "Where did you find this one, Mr Matthews?" he asked Hosea. "He's not yours nor Mr Van der Linde's."

Hosea sighed. "Up in a small town north of the Grizzlies. He showed some promise and didn't have anywhere else to go."

"Ah," said Trelawny, understanding, "an urchin thief wrung tears from the stone hearts of criminals. How are you, Mr Morgan?" He sat on a stump of a log, fixing Arthur with that same intense, unblinking stare that made his skin crawl.

"I'm alright," said Arthur. His mouth ran dry as he returned the look and, not for the first time, felt thankful Dutch was at his side.

Trelawny chuckled. "I'm sure you are, my boy!"

"What's the job, Josiah?" asked Hosea wearily. "You never come looking for me unless you have a job lined up you want a hand with."

Trelawny gasped and put a hand to his heart. "Perhaps I simply would like to visit and spend time with an old friend, catch up on news in his life?"

Hosea raised an eyebrow. Trelawny sighed and stood.

"Very well," said Trelawny. "Very well indeed." He reached into his coat pocket and handed Hosea a letter. "An invitation to the birthday celebration of Vincent Neston, the railway tycoon. More pickings than any solitary thief could carry out and away. I simply wish to share the bounty with a trusted friend. And I've been promised fine champagne." He glanced back at Arthur. "How's the boy in a crowd?"

Hosea snorted as he read the invite. "Good when he came to us and only gotten better."

"Splendid!" exclaimed Trelawny. "Always wonderful to see the youth of tomorrow learning from the masters of today."

Hosea smiled to himself, quietly pleased with the compliment. He handed the invite over to Dutch. "What do you think?"

Dutch looked it over and nodded. "I trust your judgement, Hosea," he said. "Would be good for Arthur to go on a proper job."

Arthur held his tongue. He desperately wanted to have a look at the paper and learn a bit more about this party and heist, but he knew better than to talk out of turn. It was all part of the plan. And those two always had a plan.

 **xXx**

The deep blue of midnight had darkened the world, but once they crowded back into the carriage, nothing could have stopped their laughter once it had begun.

"Did you see the look on that poor woman's face?"

"God, and that waiter." Hosea did an impersonation of the man who had chased Arthur under tables.

The three of them howled until tears of mirth ran down their faces. Arthur bit back a number of insults and curses as his face reddened under a slathering of mud.

"At least I didn't say I was with you," snapped Arthur.

"That was some quick-thinking, son," said Dutch approvingly.

Even as they continued to laugh at the chaos he had brought with them, the compliment warmed him through.

Hosea examined a platinum billfold clip under the lantern's light. They had all made off with a good haul, pockets full of cash and trinkets, and even a few things plucked from the manor house. Even Arthur. At least, until he had thought it was a good idea to steal the bracelet off a woman's arm. He didn't know she was going to squeal like a pig. He dumped his treasures and dinner jacket off in a potted plant, before leading the serving men on a ridiculous chase. He mangled his appearance best he could and by the time they had caught up with him, they saw only an urchin in torn and dirty clothes who had snuck his way into the party. Throwing him in the mud was rather unnecessary, though.

No harm was done, at least. Dutch had insisted it at least ten times. The stuffy formalwear was a write-off and the three of them managed to carry off Arthur's spoils. Not to mention the huge distraction had let them make takes they never could have otherwise. Didn't stop them from thinking it was a riot.

The carriage rolled to a stop outside their hotel. They all clamoured out into the mud, dividing the spoils fairly. Arthur was very much looking forward to slamming his door.

"Gentlemen," said Trelawny with another fancy bow, still chortling, "it has been an honour and a pleasure working with you."

"And you," said Dutch, shaking his hand again. "If you're ever in the area again, make sure to check up on us."

"Ah, but of course, Mr Van der Linde," said Trelawny. He took off his hat to Arthur before climbing back into the carriage. "Farewell, my boy."

"Are we gonna have to work and travel with him, Hosea?" asked Arthur wearily, as the carriage took Trelawny away from them.

"You don't like him much, hmm?" When Arthur shook his head, Hosea sighed. "Well, he comes and goes when he pleases, though he always seems to know where people are when he wants them. He brings good work, too."

"I expect we'll see him again, then," said Dutch with a tone that said his word was final.

Arthur swallowed it glumly and pushed at the door to the hotel. Dutch held the door shut and, without looking up, Arthur felt his eyes bore into the top of his head.

"I want you to know that you did fine work tonight, Arthur," said Dutch.

Arthur kept his lips tight together and nodded.

"What's wrong, then?"

Arthur groaned and faced Dutch with a false smile of bravado. "Neither of you would have messed up like that."

"Neither of us would have made that call," said Dutch. Despite the kind voice, his honesty cut through Arthur's facade like a knife and he hung his head. "You've just gotta learn where your strengths and weaknesses are in this line of work."

"That yarn you spun to the servants and the disguise you worked?" offered Hosea. "Working calm under pressure is a valuable skill."

Arthur felt a small genuine smile tug at the corners of his heart. "Thanks," he said in a small voice.

"Come now," said Hosea. He gave Arthur a one-armed hug and he found himself leaning into the warmth and scent of Hosea's cologne. "Let's make a final tally and get this off to our man in the morning, eh?"

Arthur nodded and allowed the two of them to lead him back into the hotel. Plan the work, then work the plan. And even with him, it worked out, like it always had.


	4. Susan Grimshaw

Ages of characters involved in the chapter. Yes, I know some aren't strictly canon, but they fit my headcanon better dammit.

Arthur: 14

Dutch: 25

Susan Grimshaw: 26

Hosea: 36

* * *

 **Susan Grimshaw**

 **1880**

* * *

"Stocking up a root cellar?" asked the clerk with a chuckle. She brushed a dark curl from her face as she tallied up the final cost.

"More of a hunting trip, out west," said Dutch. He stacked the last cans of food on the counter.

"No better place for it," she said. "We're the last town on the frontier. Go any further west and there's not much until you hit the ocean."

Dutch smiled wryly and pulled a few bottles of whiskey from the shelf. "Oh, I'm counting on it, miss."

"When you boys headed out?" she asked casually enough.

Dutch fixed her with a keen eye. He hadn't mentioned Hosea and Arthur. Young and pretty, dark hair and burgundy dress, completely normal. She held his stare, hard and unflinching.

"I saw the blonde man out over at the gunsmith with his son earlier," she said with a coy smile. "You three all rode in together, proud as pigeons."

Dutch nodded, surprised. "Clever, miss."

"Miss Grimshaw," she said. Her eyes sparkled mischievously. "Susan, depending on when y'all are heading out."

Dutch gave her a second, more pointed look and swept his eyes over her. She didn't giggle or blush, just stood there all stoic with her chin in the air and a hint of desire in the look she gave him.

"Oh, Susan," he said with a slow smile, "we'll be heading out whenever you and I are finished."

Three weeks later, they still hadn't finished. And Hosea was on the verge of exhausting what Dutch had thought was his infinite supply of patience. Dutch hadn't even robbed the girl. Not that she didn't have anything to rob. Susan stayed in a room she rented from a miner's wife, who certainly wouldn't have been such a lovely host if she was aware what sort of degenerate her lodger had dragged in.

Then again, both of them had little to complain about as to his manners. Dutch fancied himself rather a gentleman, reading people and what they wanted to hear easier than a book. The town had little in the way of entertainment, but Susan was a sharp-tongued drinker and a fierce cardswoman. Not to mention her bedroom providing more than enough entertainment for them both. As Hosea had greeted him ever more coolly at the hotel, Dutch had taken to staying in the miner's wife's house on the edge of town.

Dutch picked up a silvery picture frame from the mantle. Within, the miner and his wife smiled on their wedding day. He turned it over, picking a nail at the metal. Genuine. Six dollars, maybe six fifty.

A sharp knock sounded on the door.

"Oh, Aiden, could you get that?" called Susan from the bedroom.

Dutch peered through the curtains and groaned. "Of course, darling."

He opened the door and flashed Hosea his most charming smile. "The lady of the house is not here right now, but I might take a message to her lodger," he said mildly.

"Very funny," snapped Hosea. He tried to step into the house, but Dutch blocked him off. "While you're out here, playing house with a woman, I had to run interference last night for Arthur."

Dutch sighed. "What did the boy do now?"

Hosea waved an exasperated hand and crossed his arms. "He got it into his head to burgle a house. Turned out to be the local sheriff."

"Did he get anything good?" asked Dutch, more than a touch impressed.

"He got arrested is what he got," Hosea said as though he thought Dutch an idiot. "Lucky he didn't get shot."

Dutch smirked. "Are you telling me, dear friend, that you can't talk a boy out of a petty robbery charge?"

Hosea shook his head. "We've been here too long and this town's too small, Dutch. They know us, by now. And everyone knows about this affair the shopkeeper is having with a vagrant. The sheriff will be up shortly to speak with you about Arthur. He wants to press charges and there's no talking him out of it."

Dutch lost his humour. That was less than ideal. "No one was injured? Nothing was actually stolen?" Hosea shook his head. Dutch clapped him on the shoulder. "Then we break the boy out, load up that new wagon, and we skip town, head west like we wanted."

"And what about this new girl?" asked Hosea.

"Aiden? Who is it?" called Susan.

Hosea chuckled. "I suppose we're leaving her behind, then."

Before Dutch could think of something to say, Susan appeared at his side and he wrapped an arm around her waist. He opened his mouth and hoped words would follow it.

"I'm sorry, my dear," he started, "but my old friend Laurence and his son, Ben, got into some real trouble last night and I will have to leave for some time."

Susan raised a single dark eyebrow. "Oh, you will, will you?"

Dutch shook his head and sighed. "It's a dreadful situation, but without me, those two will just destroy themselves utterly. Laurence and his wife can hardly control the kid."

"Is that so?" she asked in that dark, sarcastic voice. She put a hand on his chest and looked up with such innocent eyes. "Then, my dear sweet Aiden, mind telling me who Dutch is? Or is he Laurence's wife?"

Dutch braced himself a moment before she slapped him. Hosea howled with laughter and gripped the porch to keep himself upright.

Holding back his anger, Dutch nodded. "I suppose I deserved—"

Smack. And again. A smarting embarrassment burned in his cheek.

"I don't think I quite deserved that one, though," he said, backing away from her grip.

"That one was for not telling you're a criminal," she snapped. "Three weeks of spinning lies and you think I wouldn't know a damn thing about you? I swear, I've met shit with more common sense than you, Aiden."

"I agree," managed Hosea as he righted himself.

"Oh, shut up, Hosea," cursed Dutch. He put a hand to his twice-slapped cheek.

"So what are you gonna do out west?" said Susan, putting her hands on her hips. "Steal from rattlesnakes?"

Hosea hesitated but Dutch waved him along. "We have an appointment to meet a man about a patch of untouched land in California."

Susan chuckled. "And make honest livings for one day in your life?"

"We do make honest livings," insisted Dutch. "This Gold Rush has turned up all sorts of new rich, abound in greed as they hoard the spoils made from the backs of migrant workers. Meanwhile, the destitute languish in their poverty, in a need what may only be fulfilled by—"

"Uh-huh," said Susan. Her lip curled in distaste. "And where does buying a plot of land fit in with this fine philosophy?"

Dutch inched closer to her, holding her eyes in his. "A new life, a better life," he said earnestly, "purer and more honest to the base freedoms what this great country was built on. Far from the controlling hands of Uncle Sam and those capitalistic vultures, we can build a new world. Living together with the land, sharing the bounty with friend and family. Even if it's only ten acres, every dream of every nation began with a single patch of dirt where a brave soul planted a flag."

Something wavered in Susan's eyes and Dutch had been playing at this for long enough to know what it was. Not quite trust or belief, but a desire to believe. And that was all he needed. A slow smile curled his lips, mirrored on her own.

"Sounds exciting."

"Is is."

"Sounds like an adventure."

"It sure has been. But it's almost over."

"I… I wouldn't agree," said Hosea.

"Oh, don't be such a doubter," said Dutch carelessly.

"This land," said Hosea, as though Dutch hadn't heard the same complaints the entire ride west, "I know the area. It's too rocky for farmland, barren of forest and timber. It's… not worth it."

Dutch shrugged. "Then we hit a few more jobs, wait for another opportunity," he said. He turned back to Susan. "There's more than enough money in this nation for everyone to achieve their dreams. It just matters who you take it from."

Susan nodded, one of those rare genuine smiles crossing her lips. "Give me an hour and I'll pack a bag."

Dutch planted a kiss on her forehead and ran a hand down her body as she left. "Of course, darling," he said.

Hosea shook his head, looking wistfully at her retreating back. "I don't know how you do that, Dutch. Just, go on one of your rants and suddenly, you have a convert."

Dutch beamed. "It's a gift, my brother. Just hope she'll like the boy."


	5. John Marston

Ages of characters involved in the chapter. Yes, I know some aren't strictly canon, but they fit my headcanon better dammit.

John: 11

Arthur: 19

Dutch: 30

Susan Grimshaw: 31

Hosea: 41

* * *

 **John Marston**

 **1885**

* * *

Hosea whistled merrily to himself. He tucked his thumbs in his pockets as he walked down the high street. Plenty of people and friendly store clerks, but the only law office in the livestock town was as far away from the bank as it could get. Almost as if they wanted to tempt petty thieves like themselves.

Well, not quite petty thieves. Not anymore. Dutch had much higher standards of jobs he wanted to pull, especially since Arthur hit his last growth spurt. The lad had grown like a bull calf the last few months, all shoulders and legs. Even at nineteen, he sported a healthy dark scruff and his glare intimidated most into handing over their valuables. And with Bessie back at camp? So long as she didn't see him at work, it was like having the son she had always wanted. Even if they had to share fathering him with a swarthy no-good conman and Miss Grimshaw, a force unto herself, even once her and Dutch had parted bedsides. With all Dutch's charm, it had taken years for Bessie to warm to him and, even so, they still got into their fair share of scraps.

Hosea leaned against the only light post in town, surveying the corner. He had already pulled a few test distractions and it looked like the law could give them up to eleven minutes, more like twenty if they didn't fire a shot and no one screamed. Hosea wasn't in the habit of shooting and terrorising people, but he had to agree that banks held far more than pockets ever did.

And a small patch of virgin land in the west — the only thing that pacified Bessie these days — would cost a few more banks' worth.

Then again, having Bessie and Dutch in the middle of the wilderness, with no law for miles around… someone was bound to get shot. And if Hosea knew his wife, it wouldn't be her.

Hosea took a deep breath, filling his lungs with cow shit and mud. A big cattle sale was going down later today, the vaults fit to bursting. They would be able to hit it tomorrow, no doubt.

"Can you spare a dime, mister?"

Hosea turned to the voice and spotted the veteran. He was rather ashamed to say he had pulled such cons himself, but there was no doubt about the stump of a leg and missing eye.

"Of course, sir," said Hosea, fishing a few coins from his own pockets. He smiled to the man, casting his eye over the last of the alleys. A shadow lurked in one of them. "Would you like one, too?" he called.

The shadow shushed him.

When he approached it, Hosea realised it was a child. Pale thing, thin and terrified. No older than ten or twelve. Hosea leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette off his boot.

"Are we playing hide and seek, boy?" he asked kindly.

The child backed away. "Could be," he whispered.

Hosea inspected the boy more closely. His clothes were in good condition but filthy, a button-down shirt and shorts. His hair was of a decent length but hadn't seen a wash in a few days. He hadn't been on the streets very long, but his eyes had a hollow age and hardness Hosea was too familiar with. He was running from safety, or at least a home, but had already known life in the alleys.

"Who we running from?" he asked.

"Me, not you," the boy whispered. When Hosea didn't move, the boy added, "Miss Bergot, from—from Honorhall."

Hosea frowned. "The orphanage by Dansbury?"

The boy nodded fiercely.

Hosea pretended not to be impressed. That was at least three counties over. Yet, whatever happened in that place had scared the kid ragged. Judging from his clothes, Hosea would guess he had made good time, too. Most streetrats found their ways into big cities, landed into a gang of older kids that ran them hard. If this boy could move so fast, it was only a matter of time before he landed in one of them.

"What's your name, son?" he asked.

"I ain't no son of yours."

Hosea shrugged, but didn't move. He tapped the ashes of his cigarette into the street.

"John," a small voice said from the shadows. "Marston."

Hosea smiled and stamped out his cigarette. "Nice to meet you, Mr Marston. How 'bout we get you cleaned up and fed, eh?"

The kid must have stayed well hidden and not run afoul of men before, because John stood almost at once and swallowed. He stepped into the light, his thin chest racing with a shallow breath.

Hosea held out a tentative hand and John took it. He whipped his head around at every passing person as Hosea led them through the town.

"My name's Matthews, by the way," he said. "Or Hosea. Either one's fine. I have a family camped up right outside town, in a little overlook by the river." John nodded. Hosea noted the more he talked, the calmer the boy became. "They're good folk, really. Once you get to know them. Dutch is a good man, best I've ever known, don't worry about him. Miss Grimshaw runs a tight camp, just make sure to wash your dishes and not leave a mess about. Arthur can be a bit of a hardcase, at times, but he has a fine heart. My wife, though, gotta watch out for her, John. A right smoking gun. Wonderful woman, no one better, but I learned long ago to not cross her."

They came to the edge of town and Hosea lifted the boy onto his horse, a dusty grey mare. He swung himself into the saddle behind him and took the reins from the hitching post.

"Are they nice?" whispered John.

"Well," said Hosea with a dry chuckle, "in my experience, there are nice men and then there are good men. You don't often find both qualities in the same one."

Hosea led the mare down a muddy road at a trot. What the hell was he doing? Maybe Trelawny was right. He was too soft to be a criminal anymore. Then again, Dutch was fond of reminding them that their heart was the only thing that separated them from the likes of the Barons or the O'Driscolls. He couldn't leave the boy alone, but would any of them be up for adopting another whelp?

"You're nice," said John at last.

Hosea shrugged, his heart swelling with the small compliment. "That would be a matter of perspective, my boy."

The mare snorted as she wove her way through the narrow young trees, before breaking through into a clearing full of tents and long forgotten tree stumps. Dutch had a low stool by the fire, a book on his lap and cigar in his mouth. Arthur sat on the ground next to him, cleaning his favourite shotgun. Bessie and Miss Grimshaw sat on the wagon with laps full of sewing. They looked so peaceful.

"I told you, I would rather you bring a revolver," said Dutch without looking up from his book.

"And like I told you, I feel better with a rifle or shotgun." Arthur snapped new shells into the gun. "And you said a rifle was gonna be no good in a bank."

"Just bring one, son, for me."

Hosea hopped from the horse and sighed. Time to face the music. He lifted John from the saddle.

"Greetings, all!" called Hosea. "I have a new friend I'd like to introduce you to."

"Is it the bank manager?" asked Dutch hopefully.

Hosea put his hands on the boy's shoulders. "Arthur, Dutch, Bessie, Miss Grimshaw, I would like you to meet young John here."

A stunned silence met the announcement. John squirmed under Hosea's hands, but they held firm.

Arthur's mouth hung open as he glanced from the boy, back to Hosea, then Dutch. A soft betrayal lingered in his eyes and Hosea had the feeling he had made a terrible mistake. Hosea locked eyes with Bessie and pleaded silently to help him.

"Come along, then, John," said Bessie, reaching out a hand to the boy. "Let's get you cleaned up, hmm?"

John eagerly took the escape as Bessie and Miss Grimshaw led him down the river.

Dutch sighed, removing his hat and wiping his brow. "Did this one pinch from you now?" he asked.

"Not as such," admitted Hosea. "He's clever, Dutch, I know he is, and he doesn't know this life yet—"

Arthur waved an angry hand back to the river. "We can't go around saving all the lost little boys in the world," he said. "How did you even find him?"

"Luck, I suppose," said Hosea. "I—"

"Uh-huh, but whose luck?" demanded Arthur. "Sure as shit not ours."

"Calm yourself, son," said Dutch, laying a hand on Arthur's shoulder. At once, he dropped his glare and kicked at the dirt. "Hosea did the right thing, the decent thing."

Relieved, Hosea beamed. "It'll be alright, Arthur."

Dutch turned back to Hosea. "Does he have any talents or skills?"

Hosea considered it. "Hiding, I'm sure. Others, I don't know. He's young enough we could teach him. Thought I could bring him back and we could lie low for a little while, test him out on a few small jobs."

"Lie low?" said Arthur, snapping his head back up. "We ain't hitting that bank?"

Dutch grimaced and scratched the back of his head.

"Dutch," insisted Arthur. "That's a lot of money in those vaults. And you swore I could come with you this time."

"There will be other banks," said Dutch at last. "And other vaults. And years and years of scores to make. I promise you, son."

Arthur stormed away before Dutch had finished speaking. "If we ain't going anywhere tomorrow, then I'm gonna go hunting," he shouted. He shrugged on a coat and snatched a rifle from his tent. Before Hosea could do anything, Arthur had swung up on Jebidiah and steered her deeper into the woods.

Hosea sighed. "You think he'll forgive me?"

"You did well, old friend," said Dutch. He pointed his cigar at Hosea and clapped him on the shoulder. "Can't leave such young boys alone in the world or take them back what where they run away from." He returned to sit at the fire.

Hosea hurried after him. "But Arthur—"

Dutch chuckled, balancing his book again on his knee. "Listen to me," he said in that earnest voice of his, "we might think Arthur a man — fit for hunting and robbing — but deep inside, he has a tender heart. And he's our boy. Now, there's another boy. Can't blame him for being bitter."

Hosea prodded the fire and chucked another split log on top. "I'm gonna have a talk with him, then," he said. He took his own horse's reins in hand and looked to where Arthur had disappeared. "Let him know nothing's gonna change. You test out John, figure out where his skills lie. Who knows? Maybe we can hit that bank after all."

Dutch turned a page. "If not," he called, "I'll take Arthur after a stagecoach next week."

 **A/N. Only once I had finished this did I realise John already has an origin story, as per the RDR2 official guide. I liked my characterization of Hosea far too much to throw away, tho.**


	6. Simon Pearson

Ages of characters involved in the chapter. Yes, I know some aren't strictly canon, but they fit my headcanon better dammit.

Dutch: 34

Pearson: 36

Hosea: 45

* * *

 **Simon Pearson**

 **1889**

* * *

"Your turn to deal, old man," growled the stranger. Between his girth and the sparse crop of coarse hair, Hosea had never met anyone who closer resembled a walrus. He licked his lips, his sausage-like fingers clinking together his remaining coins.

"Old man?" repeated Hosea. He raised an eyebrow and fixed the man with a hard stare. He backed down nearly at once.

"Deal, old man," said Dutch with a smug smile.

Hosea snapped the worn cards together and shuffled. "Old man," he muttered as he dealt. "I'm not that much older than you, boy."

The poker game had eaten up the afternoon and brought them into dusk. Most patrons had long since lost interest. Occasionally, another would pull up a chair or play a hand with them, but the three of them remained. Hosea almost felt bad for the man. He played as honestly as he could, but he and Dutch found it far too easy to read each other and had swindled the man from nearly every cent he had.

Dutch chuckled and motioned to the bartender to refill their drinks. "Old enough to call me 'boy' when you're losing."

"You—You don't need to do that," said the fat man, shuffling his glass away.

Dutch smiled lazily. "It's alright, friend," he said. "It's on me." He handed the bartender the ten he had only just won last hand from the man. "Leave the bottle," he told the bartender.

Hosea glanced at his cards and left them facedown. Ace of spades and four of clubs. Could turn into something. He tossed in his bet of ten cents.

"Where did all your guts go, old friend?" asked Dutch, clasping a hand to his frail heart.

Hosea plastered on a false smile as he examined Dutch's act. They nearly emptied the bottle these last hours, Dutch drinking most of it himself as he laughed and acted only more exuberant. But there was something entirely too calm and watchful about his eyes. He wasn't hardly as drunk as he appeared. The fat man fell for it though, his glossy eyes hoping this high-rolling vagrant was about to make a mistake as he raised again. And again.

Hosea always told Dutch it was a mistake to play poker and flash around his gold rings and brocade vest. It was dishonest. Dutch called it "strategy".

Whatever it was, it was little better than highway robbery. Then again, what was it that Hosea thought they did for a living?

The river turned over into the four of hearts, an ace of diamonds, and a seven of hearts.

Two pair. Hosea raised again.

"So, what is it you do, friend?" he asked the fat man.

He had stayed tight-lipped during their game, even as drink flowed, letting out only the occasional moan of loss.

"Not much," he said with a shrug. "Was in the navy a spell." He glanced at his cards again, beady eyes hoping they would change. With a deep breath, he shoved his pittance into the middle. "All in."

Dutch and Hosea threw in three-fifty apiece and Hosea turned over the last cards. The ace of clubs and queen of hearts.

The fat man turned his hand over with a shaky smile. Sweat beaded on his whiskery upper lip. Six and nine, both hearts. "Heart flush," he said.

Dutch tossed his own cards into the pot, a random pair of deuces, and leaned forward. "So, what does dear old Hosea have?" he asked with a grin.

Hosea grimaced and showed his hand. "Full house," he said. "Aces over fours."

The man's breath wheezed through his nose and his face turned red. "N-No. Nononono," he repeated.

Dutch knocked the scattered coins and bills into Hosea's neatly arranged towers. "Looks like it's just us now, dear friend," he said. He gathered the cards and shuffled together. "Another round?"

Hosea groaned. "Come now, Dutch. You've beaten the poor fool, let's just get to camp and—"

The man shook his head, breath whistling thin and fast past his lips. "You two don't understand," he said. His nails bit into the chipped wood of the table as his face paled. "I-I'm ruined. I'm—"

Dutch frowned and set the cards aside. "Steady on, friend," he said. "If eleven dollars are such a concern for you, I'll happily give it back."

The man raised his watery eyes to Dutch. "It's not eleven dollars," he said, a twisted humourless smile contorting the kind face. "More eleven thousand."

Dutch tipped the rest of the whiskey into the man's empty glass. "Tell me what's happened," he ordered. "Who are you?"

The man's hands shook as he brought the glass to his mouth and gulped it down. "Pearson's the name," he said in a hoarse whisper. "My Da and my Granda were both whale hunters, out on the open seas, but… no one wants whale oil these days. When I came back out of the navy, wife and I tried to—well, live our lives. The banks tricked us into a loan I'll never pay off." Tears bubbled to his eyes, but he scrubbed them away. "They took it all from me," he sniffed. "I don't have a thing left. I tried to run but… Tried to come out West to strike gold but… Friends always said I was a fair player but…"

"I'm sorry about that, Mr Pearson," said Dutch. He laid a hand on the man's shoulder. "I know all too well the lengths corrupt financiers will go to in order to collect their debts."

"You don't know the half of it, sir," said Pearson. He turned the glass in his fingers, staring at its emptiness.

Hosea chuckled. "I believe we do, actually."

Dutch called to the bartender again and filled their glasses. "Tell me more about what you did in the navy, Mr Pearson," he said.

Hosea resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He had seen Dutch pull the same act with a half hundred desperate men before. Steady and calm, he was a port in their stormy seas. The only things left to be determined was how dangerous the storm and how valuable the ship coming in. Looking at Pearson, he hardly seemed the type to be a war hero.

And, as they wore down the new bottle and the saloon emptied around them, Hosea was proven right. Though the tales of battle were embellished and the lies hopelessly transparent, it appeared he had a modicum of arms training but had mostly acted as the ship's cook.

Dutch looked to Hosea, more than a touch of true inebriation in his eyes. "We could use a cook," he said fairly. Hosea groaned.

Pearson's eyes flickered between them. "Wha—What do you mean?"

Dutch turned back to Pearson, all smiles and charm. "Mr Pearson, how would you like to work for me?"

"For you?"

"Yes, for me. I am a—traveling businessman and my associates and I—"

"Oh, don't lie to the poor fellow," said Hosea, thumping his glass back on the table. Before Dutch could could complain Hosea had ruined his spinning web, he continued, "We're more traveling artists—con-artists, primarily." He waved a hand at the hundred dollars between them. "This cash isn't ours."

"We took it from fellas that didn't deserve it," said Dutch with a scowl. "Makes it ours now."

Pearson paled under a face ruddy with drink. "Uh—boys—I, um—"

"It's probably the fairest offer you're likely to find," said Dutch. He fished a cigar from his coat and lit it. "If these debtors have chased you all the way from Lemoyne, you'll have to disappear, stay on the run. It's a lonely life, friend, I know it is. I can offer you protection in the form of a dozen gunslingers, company in the form of a dozen friends."

"I don't know the first thing about gunslinging," whispered Pearson.

"Neither does this one," said Dutch, pointing to Hosea with his cigar. "He's still the best man I have."

Pearson's breath hitched in his throat. "Oh, I don't know."

"That's alright," said Dutch kindly. "It's merely an offer, not a demand. But we really should be getting back to the others." He stood and inclined his head to the man. "It was a pleasure, Mr Pearson. And all the luck in your future endeavours."

Without looking up from the table, Pearson gathered the coins and straightened the bills with trembling fingers.

Hosea followed Dutch as they made their way out. "You really must want him," Hosea breathed.

Dutch shrugged and put a hand on the door. "Someone has to save the poor bastard," he whispered back.

"Wait!" called Pearson. "Mr O'Malley!"

Dutch turned, a faint victorious smile playing at his lips. "Yes, Mr Pearson?"

"I believe I'll take you up on that offer, Mr O'Malley," he said. He stuffed his pockets full of their poker cash and shuffled over to them.

Dutch's smile grew. "It's Dutch," he said, shaking Pearson's hand again. "Mr Van der Linde."


	7. Reverend Swanson

Ages of characters involved in the chapter. Yes, I know some aren't strictly canon, but they fit my headcanon better dammit.

Dutch: 35

Reverend Swanson: 39

Hosea: 46

* * *

 **Reverend Swanson**

 **1890**

* * *

"Found anything interesting?" called Dutch. He tapped his empty glass at the bartender, who filled another one as Hosea pulled up the chair next to him. By the look on his face, Dutch didn't need an answer.

"Not as such," said Hosea. "But it's early days."

Dutch allowed that. They had enough money for now and with the boys out hunting, and hopefully not shooting each other, they would be well supplied even if this dump of a town turned out to be a bust.

Dutch lit a fresh cigar and gave Hosea a light. They sat in the corner of the bar, by a glass window warbled and yellowed with age. Few interesting folk passed by the windows. A scattering of hillbillies and assorted morons, as well as a few working girls. One in particular caught his eye as she sashayed down the side street with another customer.

"I suppose you didn't find anything either? Dutch!"

"Hmm?" Dutch tore his eyes from the window, to meet Hosea's dark, haunted stare. Shame washed through him. "Sorry, old friend," he said.

"Don't turn celibate on my behalf," said Hosea. He tried to smile as he, without meaning to, turned the wedding ring he still wore. "The girls will go crying from New York to Los Angeles."

Dutch turned his attention back to his cigar. "I am sorry about Bessie," he said.

"You didn't kill her."

"This life did, though."

"And with Bessie and Annabelle gone, what's the point to stop it now, then?"

It was a familiar bitter exchange. So much so, Dutch could have done it with nary a thought.

Hosea coughed and swallowed his whiskey in one. "Regardless, the last thing we need is for you to turn priest on my account," he said.

The saloon doors flung open, as though a bull charged into them. The shutters rattled and a few people gave the man who burst in an odd look, for he himself was a priest.

Dutch grimaced. He never forgot a face, no matter how he longed for it. Long horsey features framed by frazzled red-brown hair. Watery brown eyes and ruddy face, well drunk before he even reached the bar.

The priest stumbled and clung to the bar. "I saw him," he said in a voice far too loud. "Where'd he go? Where're you keeping him?"

Dutch shook his head and sipped at his drink. He wished a pit would open up in the earth and swallow him to the depths of hell where he belonged.

Hosea frowned. "Wasn't that that man from Nash?"

Dutch nodded shortly. "Yes, the drunken father who got his nuns pregnant and hid needles in his bible. At least I don't do that."

"Are you telling me, Dutch—" But whatever joke at his expense Hosea wanted to make was lost at once.

The priest rounded at the sound of the name. "Van der Larson," he cried, making a few steps progress before tripping over his cassock. His head hit the floor with a hollow thump.

Dutch drained his whiskey and stepped over the man. He pulled another dollar from his pocket and slid to the baffled barkeep. "Thank you for your hospitality, friend," he said. "I'll deal with this fool."

The reverend groaned, rolling over and over in an attempt to find his way to his feet. "Mr Van der Lingonberry—"

"If you call me anything other than my name again, I won't help you," snapped Dutch, biting into his cigar. He crouched down and grabbed a hold of the reverend's arm. "Come on, Hosea."

"God bless you, fine men," muttered the reverend.

They struggled to half carry, half drag the man from the saloon and dump him on a bench in the fresh air. The reverend wobbled, his neck lolling as he hummed a distant melody.

"Trust me," said Hosea dryly, "I don't think God blesses the likes of us."

"What do you want, Swanson?" asked Dutch bluntly. "Is there any particular reason you insist on bothering me on this fine day?"

The reverend burst into tears. Heavy sobs tore through his shoulders and he buried his face in his hands. Hosea sat next to him, allowing the man to cry into his shoulder. "They threw me out," he howled at last.

Finally, thought Dutch.

After the rash of pregnancies, the morphine, the drink, and that mess with the head priest and Dutch himself, it must have been a miracle of God that allowed Reverend Swanson to stay with the convent as long as he had.

"That is a rotten shame," said Dutch with more patience than the man deserved. "I'm so sorry to hear about it, friend."

"I don't have nowhere else to go," he said, sniffing.

Hosea looked at Dutch desperately. Any other circumstance, any other useless drunken sod, and Dutch would have given him his condolences, a few bills, and then they would have left town. But Hosea knew what the reverend was hinting at and so did Dutch.

Dutch crouched down. "Look at me, friend," he said softly. The reverend rose his watery eyes to meet Dutch's. "You know what me and my associates do. Removing corruption, sadly, doesn't pay very well. I wish it did." Dutch left out that part about Hosea collecting a minor fortune off the head priest's scams.

The reverend nodded, his ragged hair trembling. "But—But I don't wanna—I'm scared," he whispered. "I'm scared of falling in with folks like you who aren't like you, Mr Van der…" He sucked at his lips, not daring to mess his name again.

Dutch held back a sigh, but only just. "Linde."

"Mr Van der Linde," he pleaded. "I know youse have a heart, sir. In spite of the work you do, I know you're a righteous man. But the way I'm going… I can see that without the church, my demons will… I don't wanna…"

"You saved my life," said Dutch in calm voice.

The reverend smiled through his tears. "You told me that that would be worth something someday." He twisted his bony fingers in Hosea's coat. "Can today be 'someday'?" he asked his hands wistfully.

"You tell me, friend," said Dutch.

Honestly, he had never expected to meet up with this failing reverend again, but he had given his word nonetheless. A large part of Dutch had little patience for the man's weakness, but it wrestled with his heart as it ached for the pathetic sight. The boys could be saved, taught and be reborn with hope for their futures, but the reverend's demons had flourished over years, decades. The best Dutch could hope to offer that man was mercy. Perhaps that would have to be enough.

The reverend looked back to Dutch and trembled a nod without a word.

Dutch clapped the reverend on the shoulder. "Hosea and I have a camp set up outside town," he said. "You can sleep off the drink and stay as long as you want to."

The reverend stood, still clutching to Hosea to steady himself. "Thank you, oh thank you, Mr Van der Dutch," he said.

Hosea chuckled.

Dutch stamped out his cigar and took the reverend's other arm. "Come along, Swanson," he said bitterly, "before I change my mind."


	8. Uncle and Abigail Roberts

Ages of characters involved in the chapter. Yes, I know some aren't strictly canon, but they fit my headcanon better dammit.

John: 19

Arthur: 27

Mac and Davey: 29

Dutch: 38

Uncle: immortal by the sheer power of lumbago

* * *

 **Uncle and Abigail Roberts**

 **1893**

* * *

"Nice and easy, boys," said Dutch. A casual smile lingered in his face. Rather like Arthur, bank jobs always put him in a good mood. "Just trust. Everyone know what they're doing? Davey and Mac, you handle the patrons and collect charitable donations. John, you keep time and watch the windows — remember, six minutes clean. Arthur, you come with me to the vaults."

Dutch stopped them all across the street from the bank. John looked up at the sign and fingered his prized revolver.

"Scared, kid?" asked Arthur with a smirk.

John flushed and spluttered, eventually spitting out a, "Never!"

"That's enough, boys," snapped Dutch. "Arthur, you're getting a bit old for me to slap you. And John, it's natural to be worried—"

"I ain't worried," said John. His eyes flickered over the Callandar brothers. Arthur knew what he was thinking. Davey, Mac, and himself were strong, built like bulls, with years of experience on him. It was one of the few ways Arthur felt he was able to pull one over on the kid, when everything else came so easily to him.

"You shouldn't be," drawled Arthur. "Knowing your luck, the bank manager will start bleeding fifties when you shoot him."

"If only," said Davey.

A few streets down, a commotion began. Shrieks and whistles echoed in the clear blue sky. Above it all, Arthur could make out Hosea's desperate voice calling for help.

Dutch grinned. "Oh, I do love Hosea's artistry. Masks on, boys."

Arthur and the rest pulled up their bandanas and unholstered their guns. The familiar work of a bank job put Arthur in a good mood, all the better that he got to see the kid shake in his duster.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is a robbery," called Dutch. He put a bullet into the ceiling as he crossed to the bank teller, Arthur hot on his heels. The patrons shrieked and fell to the ground. "If all goes well today, everyone will leave with their lives and we will leave with the money."

Davey and Mac started hassling the patrons and John pinned himself to the windows. Rich folk, in town for some famous historical fair, quivered in their lace and threw what they had at the bandits.

Dutch pressed the barrel of his gun to the bank manager's head. "Now, if you would be so kind as to show my boy to your vaults, gentleman," he said.

"One minute," shouted John.

Arthur grabbed the manager by the scruff of his collar as Dutch pawed through the desk drawers. Once in the back office, Arthur hurled the manager at the safe door. He crashed and fell to his knees with a groan.

"Open up," Arthur growled at man.

He twiddled at the dial, shaking so hard his glasses fell off his face. He screamed and picked them up, shielding his head with his hands. Arthur sighed and put a bullet in the wall next to his head.

"I—I'm so sorry," blubbered the manager.

"Too damn slow!" shouted Arthur.

"Two minutes!" came Marston's thin voice. "Shit! No more time! _Dutch_!"

A sinking cold fell in Arthur's stomach and he took his gun off the manager. Even Marston wasn't so stupid as to use their names when they put their masks on.

"What's wrong?" he yelled back.

Shrill police whistles answered him before Dutch did.

"We gotta go, son."

Arthur cursed and ran back to the open hall. They all stared, open-mouthed out the windows. John was milk white and trembling beside Dutch. The Callanders hugged the wall, clinging to their sacks of loot. Over two dozen cops stood outside the windows, guns aimed at them. Hosea and the girls were nowhere in sight.

"What went wrong with Hosea?" hissed Davey.

"He's never fucked up before," said Mac.

Dutch shook his head, a plan spinning behind his eyes. But Arthur already knew there were no other exits or windows, aside from the one the bluecoats waited for them outside.

"This is your last chance!" one of the cops shouted. "Come out with your hands up, or we'll come in!"

"Arthur, did you hurt the bank manager?" asked Dutch urgently.

"Scared him pretty bad but didn't even hit him yet," said Arthur.

Dutch nodded and pulled down his bandana. "I say we surrender," he said.

"Have you lost it?" snapped Mac.

"Careful, boy," said Dutch in that warning voice of his. "You wanna shoot and die a bank robber's death, that's fine by me. But I wanna live. Trust me, boy, I have a plan."

 **xXx**

"Do you have a new plan?" asked Arthur wearily.

Dutch hung his head and Arthur wished he could take the jibe back.

The five of them, closely followed by Hosea, took to the gallows, hands cuffed before them. They had barely spent an hour in a prison cell before the bank patrons had ratted and said one of the boys had called him "Dutch" as in, the nefarious wanted outlaw, Dutch van der Linde and his gang.

Marston and his big fucking mouth.

Whatever Dutch's grand plan was for escaping police custody had gone up in smoke, and they faced a line of nooses at the dusk gallows. Not a single one of them cried or fought, but the mournful silence was even worse. Dutch had frazzled hopelessly as ideas came and went: guards who failed to be bribed, the sturdy cell doors, and even the heavily armed escort provided no opportunity. The assembled crowd tuttered and jeered, an odd combination of local working girls and farmers as well as curious richer dogoods.

The clergyman clutched a bible to his chest at the end of the row. "Fair ladies and gentlemen," he said in a vibrating heavy voice, "it is justice what separates man from beast, yet sometimes, justice too must be bestial…"

"Colm has walked to the noose before," hissed Dutch, his eyes flickering over the crowd.

"What, you think the reverend will save us all?" said Arthur from the corner of his mouth.

Dutch clenched his jaw, his brow furrowing. But Arthur had a feeling he had no more plans. Arthur was ready and resigned to die. If there was no way out and this was the end, he figured they had had a good run. He had a good life. Just more of a shame the others had to go down with him too.

"Dutch van der Linde!" called the clergyman. "Your sins and crimes are without count. You have been a wanted man — murder, arson, robbery, theft — for over two decades and it is not enough to damn yourself, but to lead children astray. Your sentence, as it has always been, is to be hung by the neck until dead."

The nearest policeman knotted the rope around Dutch's neck. Arthur struggled against his own handcuffs.

"May God have mercy—What the devil?"

Several of the prostitutes broke out into a scrap, pulling hair and shrieking bloody murder at each other. From somewhere beyond the crowd, a gun went off. Arthur heard the bullet whizz by and he ducked. The clergyman and cop beside Dutch collapsed, bloody and silent.

The Callander boys broke into action, slamming the rest of the police off the gallows stage. More bullets bit into the wood behind them, but Arthur couldn't tell who was shooting what. The crowd screamed and scattered. Arthur crouched low, picking through the guards pockets for a key. Heart racing, he unlocked himself and pulled the rope off Dutch.

"What the hell was that?" he called over the commotion.

"God having mercy on our souls," gasped Dutch. "Come on!"

They wrangled the others out of their restraints and ran off the stage. There wasn't enough of a crowd to lose themselves in and, despite the shrieking whistles, policemen could be coming from any direction. They stood, scrambling for an idea for precious few moments.

"Come on!" called a hoarse voice. "Over here!"

In a darkened alley, a paunchy older man with a thick grey beard beckoned from an open door. Gratefully, Arthur and the others followed him inside. The smell of whiskey and perfume greeted them. A brothel, all but empty, a cheap one by the looks of the girls who stared smugly at them.

The old man whooped and led them to a chipped wooden table, wrangling chairs from across the room to fit them all. "Helluva day," he said. "Anyone want a drink?" He tossed a beat up revolver on the table.

"Thank you, friend," said Dutch, still panting. "That would be mighty kind of you."

The old man went behind the bar and filled a set of glasses, each with a generous amount of liquor. When he came to sit down, he drank straight from the remainder of the bottle. Arthur drained his in one swallow.

"Greedy bastard, ain't you?" The old man chuckled and refilled his glass.

"Well, under normal circumstances, I would introduce us," said Dutch. "Not to sound presumptuous, but I feel you already know who we are."

The old man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Everything about him was filthy, from the dirt crusted in his hair to the greyish ratty farmer's clothes he wore. "Not a clue," he said cheerfully. "I don't much listen to pastors. Puts me to sleep, it does."

"I'm John—" Marston stopped abruptly when Dutch raised his hand.

"Excuse me, then," said Dutch, fixing the man with a hard look, "but why then did you risk your neck to save us?"

"You were those bank robbers, eh?" said the old man. "Damn good time for a robbing, too. I'm afraid I might've messed that one up for you. Got into a bit of a disturbance with the girls out on Flag's Street, right by the bank. Mucked up your distraction right fast." He pointed his glass at Hosea with a toothless smile. "Good plan, I hears it. One of the girls told me."

"You risked your life to save a bunch of criminals you helped get captured?" asked Arthur, astounded. "The law would've given you the bounties on all our heads."

"I've no need of money," said the old man. He spoke to his bottle in a mumble. "Just wanna be part of the action again, that's all."

"Well, that was an excellent distraction," said Hosea in a shaky voice. "Could not have been better timed."

Dutch nodded his agreement. "I suppose we can stay here until dark, then slip off?"

The old man waved a hand. "Of course, of course," he said. "We need to wait for Abi, anyways."

Dutch raised an eyebrow. "Who's Abi?"

"My girl," he said. He laughed. "More my niece, really. She's had a rough ol' time here and, shoot, if I'm getting the chance to leave this mudhole, then she's coming with me."

"You're… coming with us?" asked John.

"Just call me 'Uncle', Johnny boy."


	9. Javier Escuella

Ages of characters involved in the chapter. Yes, I know some aren't strictly canon, but they fit my headcanon better dammit.

Arthur: 28

Javier: 30

Dutch: 39

* * *

 **Javier Escuella**

 **1894**

* * *

Dutch pushed open the doors to the seedy saloon, Arthur hot on his heels. He breathed deep the scent of whiskey and old blood baked into the scuffed floors. Gunslingers and other outlaws, in an odd assortment of leather and stolen finery, gave the two of them a wary eye before returning to their hushed conversations and gambling.

Arthur clicked his tongue. "I dunno about this, Dutch," he said. "Hosea's better at this sort of thing."

"Take Hosea into this?" repeated Dutch with a chuckle. "If you would rather not sniff out work, just go to the bar then and look surly and menacing."

Already doing his job, Arthur brushed by someone else. "I'll menace you in a minute," he grumbled as he took his escape to the bar.

Dutch found himself a dark corner to stand in and cast his eye over the room. This far south and west of civilized land, such places were populated by unscrupulous bounty hunters, thieves, and other guns. After that mess with the O'Driscolls, Dutch was painfully aware of how little firepower he had back at camp. They had left a trail of bodies behind them as they fled and not all of them were O'Driscolls.

"If I were your man, I'd be a lot more respectful about it, senor," came a snide voice with a Spanish lilt.

Dutch turned and found young Mexican gun with his boots up on a table. He looked entirely too neat to be a gun, but from the stocked bandolier and ostentatious gold pistols on his belt, he could be nothing but. A dusty poncho draped over a neat suit jacket and waistcoat. His hair had been pulled back in a sleek ponytail that fell down his back. He offered a battered package of cigarettes.

Dutch took one and a light from the man. "Would you now?" he asked. "What do you do for a living, friend?"

The man chuckled at the blatant honesty of the question in such a place. "Well, amigo, I am a notorious bounty hunter from Nuevo Paraiso. And you?"

"If you remain a bounty hunter in Armadillo, you might find a few posters around here with my face on them," said Dutch. The tobacco tasted as dusty as the poncho, worn and poor quality. The man might have won himself success in his particular profession, but didn't have it now. He was looking for a change of pace.

"And what is it you have done to earn these posters?" asked the man boldly. Something glittered in his black eyes. "Beat and rob old women?"

Dutch decided to allow him that one. Only one. "Whatever happened to respect?" he asked.

"I'm not your man, mister," said the stranger. He clicked his tongue in disapproval, the unspoken "yet" hovering between them.

Dutch stamped out the cigarette and extended his hand. "Van der Linde. Dutch."

The man shook it with a small smile. "Javier Escuella. Ah, I do know that name, amigo. You and your gang of murderous bandits."

"I would reject both of those descriptors, if you wouldn't mind," said Dutch mildly. He took the seat opposite Javier and offered one of his own cigars. Javier ran it under his nose, inhaling the rich scent before lighting it off a nearby candle.

"Then, what would you call yourself, senor?" he asked.

Dutch lowered his voice chose his words carefully. Javier leaned closer, the better to hear.

"A fighter," said Dutch at last. He kept his eyes locked with the young gun. "A fighter of corruption in this modern world, of the endless appetites of men who consume the freedom and work of others and leave nothing but ruins in their wake, of the industrialists and bankers and fellas who hide behind the law, of a government drunk on power and control. I am a dreamer, a man who steals from those who hoard the financing of the American dream away from every soul what could use it. I love my country, Senor Escuella, but someone has to stand up to it. I've earned many names for my efforts."

Javier held his silence for a long while, examining Dutch as he smoked the cigar before finally breaking eye contact. "And a man who loves the sound of his own voice," he quipped. But his eyes did not reflect his humour. "Are any of the names true?" he asked.

Dutch smirked. "All of them, none of them."

Javier furrowed his brow, turning the cigar between his long fingers as it smoldered. "All my life, I have worked for such men," he said. "The jobs… well, they fill the wallet and empty the soul." He sighed. "Tell me more of these murderous bandits of yours."

"A collection of waifs and vagabonds I've run into over the years," said Dutch. "Con-artists, enforcers, guns. Friends. Family."

"Family?" repeated Javier with a bitter smile.

"My right hand and I raised a pair of streetrats into the best shot I've ever met and a highly skilled operator." Dutch laughed and waved a dismissive hand. "I don't know what else you want me to call my brother and sons."

"Criminals like you and me, senjor, our life does not permit such families," said Javier firmly. He tipped his chair back, putting as much distance between himself and Dutch as he could. But he didn't leave.

"There's a better life for fellas like us, friend," said Dutch. "Spill enough blood, change the mind of enough folks, and eventually the government will stop trying to civilize the west. Enough money and we can buy a new chance at freedom. A plot of land, starting seed, head of cattle, lumber, and we can build a society anew, where every man is entitled to the sweat of his brow, every woman her brow."

Javier stared, his lip curling. Something very familiar to Dutch wavered behind his black eyes. A desire, a want to hope. "You can't be serious."

"We already have chickens."

Javier licked his lips and broke off eye contact. "How many are you? What is the take like?"

Dutch smiled. He had him. All that was left was to hammer out the finer details. "Five strong guns, six at a push not including you, and another five who keep camp," he said. "From jobs, half the take always goes to the funds, the other half split between the fellas what accomplished the job."

"Not the most… ah, advantageous take for your men," said Javier dismissively. "Better cuts could be found with almost any gang."

"My men find something no other gang could provide them with." When Javier's wandering eyes met his again, Dutch said, "Faith. They believe in me, not because I keep us safe from the law, but because I let them live like men, not like animals. Even if there is no money in such jobs, we help folks as needs helping. We exercise human compassion that humanity has forgotten in such recent years."

Javier blew smoke out at him. "Tell me, senor," he said, "do all your men listen to these speeches?"

Dutch chuckled. "They do if they know what's good for them."

In a single deft movement, Javier reached back to his belt, his poncho waving. Dutch tensed, ready to reach for his own gun. Javier dropped to his knees and spun his pistol in his finger, pointing the grip at Dutch in offering.

"Then, consider me one of your men, Senor Van der Linde," he said boldly. "I will believe in you and the American dream you speak of. I will fight in your name and lay down my life for yours. I will follow you to the gates of hell. My loyalty is yours, my gun, my name, my life."

Dutch wrapped his hand around the flashy gun and Javier's hand and pushed it back. "Keep it, son," he said. "You'll need it soon enough."


	10. Bill Williamson

Ages of characters involved in the chapter. Yes, I know some aren't strictly canon, but they fit my headcanon better dammit.

Bill: 26

Dutch: 39

Hosea: 50

* * *

 **Bill Williamson**

 **1894**

* * *

"How are you feeling?" asked Dutch.

Hosea rolled his eyes at the critical, repetitive question. "Same as ever."

They hitched their horses at the posts before the general store. A new state, a new town waiting for them to pluck it clean. Well, old town. Ten years ago, it had been the frontier, a few shacks at the base of the northern Grizzlies. Now, it was settled. Full of shiny brick buildings with cobble streets running between them and a newfangled theatre that showed moving pictures. World was changing fast.

"Has the mountain air not helped at all?" persisted Dutch. "Your cough is all but gone."

Hosea nodded reluctantly. Raised on the mountains, he always felt wretched when they dropped too low in altitude or went too far south. Still, moving so frequently up and down cliff sides wasn't easy on any of them — the women packing up and tearing down, the men looking for jobs, his back. He dug his hands into his pockets and rolled his shoulders, searching for a position to ease the ache.

Dutch didn't miss a trick, as ever.

"What's wrong now?" he asked. But rather than exasperation, it was the concern in his voice that struck him deep.

Hosea sighed. "Age," he said at last. The cursed word hadn't been said between them since Hosea's back started aching ten years past. "I've turned fifty, my friend. I don't know how many more years I'm going to last like this."

Dutch turned his eyes to the road and chewed on his thoughts. "We almost have enough," he said bitterly.

Hosea pursed his lips tight. The two of them had been saying that for nearly as long as his back had pained him. The more members their little gang had acquired, the more ambitious and profitable jobs were. But then, things changed. Money was lost, former members robbed them, the land they wanted was sold, the crooked realtor they used was killed. Ten years of "almost" and a hundred setbacks.

"I just want to see our people safe before I go," said Hosea plainly. "That's all."

"And I'll see it done. I promise you, old friend."

"Old?" repeated Hosea with a wry smile.

Hosea brought them up onto the sidewalk and found himself a mark. Thinning hair, thick spectacles, open overcoat. Gleam of chain within.

"You do have some nerve, boy," continued Hosea as he stormed ahead, eyes turned back on Dutch's smirk. "Calling me old when you-" He walked straight into the man. His practiced hand slipped into the coat and unclasped the chain, swinging the watch into his palm.

"Oh, sorry," he threw over his shoulder, brushing past him.

Dutch and Hosea rounded the next corner and Hosea tossed him the watch. "Calling me old when I still can't teach you how to do that," he said smugly. "Real gold, engraved with initials P.W., perfect condition."

Dutch ran a thumb over it, jaw clenched in aggravation. "Very nice," he admitted. "But the initials lower the resale value for any fence worth having." He nodded with his hat to a pair across the street. "At least I can do that proper."

Despite the high sun, a stumbling drunk accosted a prostitute in an alley. Hosea considered himself lucky he had never been forced to attempt that ruse. While the prostitute may have genuinely sold themselves, it was clearly not a woman, but another man. He reached a slow slender hand to the back pocket of the drunkard.

"You caught me trying a basic pocket grab fifteen years ago," reminded Hosea.

The prostitute-thief snatched a billfold from the pocket, his hand disappearing into the satchel on his shoulder. Gotten what he was looking for, he shrieked and smacked the other man full in the face. The drunk stumbled against the wall, frowning.

"Whada I do, though?" he hollered after the thief, as he turned away in a huff, money grabbed, escape made.

"Sixteen years ago." Dutch sighed. "Take some off the top for me, would you?"

Hosea grimaced. Judging by the state of the thief's makeup and hair, he had been at it all night, and if he were as clever about picking his marks as he was now… "I'll see what he has," said Hosea.

Dutch hung back as Hosea tailed the thief.

"Oh, ma'am!" he called, plastering on his most charming smile.

The thief turned back, a flash echoing in his eyes. A flash Hosea knew all too well. It was the only true benefit to getting old. His blonde hair had given way to grey some years ago, wrinkles creasing his eyes and face. Combined with the smile he had perfected as a runaway teen, most thought him harmless. It was particularly advantageous to stealing from other thieves, who saw little more than an easy old mark.

"Ma'am, I'm terribly sorry to disturb you," he said with an uneasy chuckle. "I'm sure you're not feeling to kindly about men, but I wanted to make sure you were alright."

The thief smiled. How could anyone think this a woman? Under the long hair and makeup, the bone structure was all wrong, the size of the hands. The lopsided breasts. "It's… It's just another ratty customer," he said. The crusty voice. "Are you new in town, mister?" he purred.

Hosea couldn't hold back the cringe as he stuttered. "I'm terribly sorry, ma'am, but I'm a married man, I—"

The thief laughed. "That's alright," he said. "Let me show you around town. A woman like me learns a lot about it when walking around."

"That's mighty fine of you, ma'am," said Hosea.

He inclined his head and, as they walked, he put a hand on the small of his back. Every few steps, Hosea would take his pressure off so it wouldn't be so unusual when he removed his hand for a few seconds. The thief edged closer, making the job far easier.

"And that there is Mr Calloway, the butcher. A strong man like you, I bet you're a hunter. The men tell me he pays fine prices for rabbits. Rabbit season never ends here, he says.."

Hosea slipped his hand into the satin satchel and resisted the urge to compliment the young thief on his night of work. Great many billfolds, with icy metal clips holding them together. In a town like this, they were likely steel, but no matter. A few plain rings. Few more watches, one so scuffed it was barely worth taking. He caught a pair of rings and three billfolds on his way out. He glanced his hand on the thief's back again before passing the goods behind his back and into his far coat pocket. He chanced it again when they turned down another secluded street, fishing out a few more treasures.

Yep. He still had it.

Hosea smiled when he felt the thief disturb his left pocket. It was empty.

As he thought, the thief brought their tour to an abrupt end. "I'm sorry, sir, but I've gotta get back to my friends," he said stiffly.

Hosea tipped his hat. "And I mine."

Humming to himself, Hosea retraced his steps to the alley he left Dutch in. At every corner he turned, he counted out another billfold. One hundred twelve dollars in total, four steel clips, one engraved with silver, a silver pocket watch, two gold wedding rings, and a silver. Two hundred dollars, then. For a few minutes work.

Not bad for an old man.

Dutch lingered in a doorway before a red brick shop and alley, as out of place as ever in his pristine blacks. He leaned against the walls, trading words with the drunken man who had been robbed. The drunkard looked like he belonged in the alley far more than Dutch. A flannel shirt, only one sleeve pushed up, work pants and a scraggly brown beard muddied from falling down. He sat at Dutch's feet on the steps.

"Ah, my friend the lawman returns to us," said Dutch with a broad smile. "Kindly give Mr Williamson back his money."

Already apprehensive about what story Dutch had been spinning in his absence, Hosea fished out a scratched steel billfold containing nine dollars and handed it over. The drunkard smiled up at him with glazed eyes.

"Thanks, mister," he said.

"Mr Williamson was in the military," said Dutch.

He and Hosea traded a pointed look and, not for the first time, Hosea wished they could communicate by telepathy. He knew they needed more guns, especially since every hornet's nest they kicked up seemed to contain another bloodbath. That Mexican was clever enough, sharp and loyal and skilled. But… they were hardly this desperate. Were they?

"Is that so?" asked Hosea in a cold voice. "Then, what led Mr Williamson to leave his service?"

"Murder," said Dutch cheerfully.

"'S only attempted," muttered Williamson.

" _Dutch_."

"Hosea?" Dutch raised his eyebrow in the way that told Hosea he had already made up his mind.

"Let's be reasonable about this," he said. "We need—"

"I do regrets what I did," wailed Williamson. The deep sorrow of a man drowning in drink clung to his words. "But, there's a time and a place for the killings. What we was doing to those Indians wasn't human. I told the captain — I told him but… It weren't right." He groaned, grinding his palms into his eyes. "Captain had a wife and kids and it weren't right to take away their daddy. So I couldn't do it. I left. Rather than shoot more redskin kids."

"See," said Dutch, beaming. "Limits, a sense of morality, a solid background in military training—"

"We don't need another Swanson," snapped Hosea. "One weeping drunk is all this gang can handle."

Williamson sniffed. "I can give up the bottle, mister. Mr Dutch said he could give me something more."

Hosea sucked his teeth. Dutch's dark eyes glittered at him.

"See, Hosea? And _loyalty_."


	11. Jack

Ages of characters involved in the chapter. Yes, I know some aren't strictly canon, but they fit my headcanon better dammit.

Abigail: 18

Arthur: 28

Dutch: 39

Hosea: 50

* * *

 **Jack**

 **1894/1895**

* * *

"Dutch, can we… damnit."

Dutch glanced up from his book. Dinner had ended long ago and night had consumed the forest, leaving their camp quiet and rather peaceful. Abigail was anything but. She lingered at the entrance to his tent, her hand still clasped onto the flap of canvas. She set her lips in a determined line, but a fear wavered in her eyes and her shoulders held tense.

He set his book aside and patted the place on his bed. "What's wrong, my dear?"

"Can we — I don't know, go for a walk or something?"

Dutch raised an eyebrow. "I'd rather lay in my own bed."

She flushed. "It's nothing like that," she insisted. "Well, something like that."

Baffled, Dutch shrugged on a coat against the chill and picked a lantern from its hook. She had never seemed adverse to having sex with them before. It must be serious.

"Lead the way, then," he said.

On foot, she led them down a thin path to the riverside, well out of earshot of anyone from camp. He set the lantern down, his eyes fixed on her. Abigail might have been the hardiest woman he had ever met. Despite her youth and hard life, or perhaps because of it, he hadn't seen her flinch or show an ounce of fear. She was tougher than most men he had ridden with.

Yet, she stared off into the river, her lower lip jut out and trembling, and her arms wrapped around her middle as though she had been wounded. He realised a moment before she spoke.

"I'm pregnant," she whispered.

Dutch nodded. "I know."

"I don't wanna leave—"

"You don't have to."

"—but I wanna keep him." Abigail's voice broke and her entire body shook with the effort to hold back her emotions.

Not many things surprised Dutch, but that did. He had figured she would ask to keep this quiet and take her into town to find an abortionist. Perhaps an orphanage or church, if she had a gentle heart.

Dutch sighed and wrapped his arms around her. Her hands dug into the back of his coat as she sobbed.

"It'll be alright, my girl," he whispered. "We want to build a whole new world. And the world would be an awfully dreary place without children."

"I don't—I don't want him to grow up like I did," she managed through her tears.

"We all want better for our children than what we had."

"I need to—I don't want my son to grow up with his mother as a whore."

Dutch pulled away and he felt her stiffen as he looked at her. "I never told you that you had to be," he reminded her gently. "Whatever was in your past was your past, I said. You had insisted on earning your keep. But you can help keep camp or go into town and learn the trade with Hosea—"

"I want to be a mother to my son," she said, her eyes hard as blue ice. "That is the only job I want in the world."

Dutch considered it. "Of course," he said. "Why don't we walk a stretch?"

Abigail nodded and wiped her tears. Dutch retrieved the lantern and they walked along the water's edge in silence, the cool night air washing over them.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

Her breath hitched with the threat of another sob. Dutch put his arm around her waist again.

"It'll be alright, Abigail," he said.

"I didn't expect you to be… so relaxed about this," she admitted. "I was expecting…"

"...the worst," he finished for her. "But you're a part of this family, my dear. You're under my protection, and that means you and your child will always be safe here."

 **xxx**

"I still can't believe Abigail's gonna have this thing," said Arthur, his face pale.

Dutch stoked the fireplace and held back a smile. He knew Arthur was terrified the boy was his, though he would have been secretly quite pleased. The only certainty was that it wasn't Uncle's or Hosea's. Despite their best attempts to keep quiet, Abigail had been with the Callandar boys as well as Bill, Javier, Dutch's own boys, and himself. He couldn't even say for sure if the reverend had kept his vows.

But at the end of the day, it was hers and that was all that mattered to Abigail.

For the time being, they had commandeered an abandoned mining town. They had filled in the chinks in the walls and the root cellar with many trips to town and the woods. Fall was fast approaching and the snows would isolate them for the winter, giving ample time for Abigail to recover and the child to gain strength before moving camp again.

"He's not a thing," said Dutch mildly. His patience the last days had worn treacherously thin. "Would you rather I tie her down and carve it out of her?"

Arthur all but fell off his chair. "No!" he exclaimed. "Of course not!"

"She wasn't about to be rid of her own child and, as she hadn't done nothing, I wasn't about to cast her out," he snapped, throwing the poker back in its pot. "Someday, son, it'll be you making these sorts of decisions yourself. And then you'll learn how much harder it is to make them when people are doubting you."

"I would never doubt you, Dutch," swore Arthur.

Dutch threw himself into the chair next to Arthur. "I know, boy. It's just been a… a trying few days."

Abigail, with a belly fit to bursting, had rode into town with Hosea, Uncle, and the other girls, leaving the rest of men to sit on their hands and wait. Either she would return with a new child, in which case a celebration would be mandated, or she wouldn't.

John didn't want to wait. He had been out hunting three days now and Dutch had a suspicion what Abigail had been hounding him about. If she wanted to claim one as the father, she had chosen the youngest and most immature of the lot. Even Davey probably would have stood up as a father.

Bill burst through the door, cheeks blistered red with cold. "Boss, I think they're back," he said. He ran back out, across the wet leaves, to the larger cabin the others stayed in. "Pearson!" he hollered. "Put the stew on, you lazy bastard! Gotta new mouth to feed!"

"The child lived," breathed Arthur. "He's alive?"

Dutch laughed and held the door open for him as Arthur ran down the road to where the wagon pulled up. Even at this distance, Dutch could see Abigail was beaming from ear to ear. She handed off the child to Hosea and Arthur lended Abigail a hand as she climbed down.

"Ooh, such a gentleman," cooed Meredith, fanning herself from the back of the wagon.

"Oh, Mr Morgan, could I have a hand as well?"

Arthur blushed scarlet to the tips of his ears.

"Shut up," demanded Abigail. She accepted the small wrapped bundle from Hosea as the girls clambered out the back on their own.

Even so, Arthur put an arm around Abigail and led her to the cabin as Hosea and Uncle steered the wagon back into the stables. Rosy from the chilly ride back to the town, Abigail's face still held an unusual pallor.

"Are you doing alright?" asked Dutch, falling into step beside them.

The baby's pink face wiggled in her arms, with a head full of fine dark hair and his mother's eyes. Not Javier's then.

Overwhelmed, Abigail nodded . "I—I haven't stopped smiling," she said. "Thank you, Dutch." She turned her clear smile to him and all he could do was return it and open the door for her.

Bill had done his job and spread the word. When they pushed their way back into the cabins, a wave of heat and the smell of rich rabbit stew and greeted them. The others bustled around with bottles of whiskey, cursing at each other to hurry up. An overlarge crackling fire strained behind its iron gate in the fireplace.

Javier strummed his guitar to call for silence. "Hey, hey, new madre is here! What's his name?" he asked.

After much shushing, the men all turned, faces expectant. Abigail looked down at the little pink face swaddled in her arms. "It's Jack," she said, a watery laugh bubbling from her lips. "He's Jack!"

"Everyone, it's Jack," shouted Javier.

Cheers and whoops answered him.

Even Mac came forward to embrace Abigail and congratulate the new boy, patting Jack's bare head while he gurgled happily in his mother's arms. Drinks and bowls were pushed into everyone's hands as they all found places to stand and sit. Miss Grimshaw brought out a sheet pan of chocolate cake, Abigail's favourite recipe with cherries and cheap wine. Songs, increasingly sloppy and drunk, echoed off the walls as they made promises to the little boy who laughed ceaselessly. Softened by the child, even the sour-tempered Mac swore to teach Jack to ride a horse. A mood of genuine joy took over the cabin and Dutch had never been prouder of his men. This wasn't any celebration of a heist well done, but a move in the right direction. New life, a new generation, the purest and most human celebration there was.

Hosea slid next to Dutch soundlessly, an empty glass in hand. For several moments, they watched the group in silence. Arthur still sat with Abigail, as Jack was passed around the men to the dramatic tune of Javier's guitar.

"Another one," said Hosea heavily.

"First one," corrected Dutch with a fond smile. "The boys were our sons. Now, we're grandparents. Our brave new world is growing."

Hosea sighed and lowered his voice to a whisper. "What sort of a life do you think that boy will have?"

"The best we can give him," said Dutch firmly. "You aren't having doubts now, Hosea, about raising children? Ten and fifteen years too late, I'm afraid."

Hosea touched his shoulder and guided the two of them into the back room. Dutch shut the door behind them and fixed Hosea with a hard look.

"We didn't take newborn innocents and put revolvers in their hands, Dutch," said Hosea, unfazed. "This is different."

Dutch shrugged. "How so? That boy and her mother are our responsibility. Once he's grown, he can make his own decisions what life to lead."

"Like John? Like Arthur?" he demanded. Hosea gestured back to the main room, eyes narrowed. "Last I checked, both of them robbed that train two weeks back. John killed the engineer, both of them several lawmen in the escape."

Dutch flinched. That job had gone wrong every way it could have. "They're grown men now and can make their own decisions. This isn't a prison camp."

"You could make the right decisions easy for them."

"Right decisions?" asked Dutch, ice in his voice.

Hosea had known him too long and too well to be cowed by his anger, though. "When are you going to teach Jack to shoot?" he snapped. "Six? Seven? When is he going to kill his first rabbit? Elk? Bear? Man? He'll have a bounty on his head before he can talk. What about if we get captured, or killed? Be reasonable, Dutch."

Dutch grit his teeth and bit back the insults he itched to hurl. "You want me to throw out an eighteen-year-old whore and her newborn infant?" he asked in a voice of forced calm.

Hosea breathed a sigh of relief. "We have enough money to set them up in a house," he said, his own plan clearly already thought out. "Give little Jack there a normal life."

"A normal life," spat Dutch, grimacing. "With a surly mother bereft of a man, abandoned by an unknown outlaw father, living with a cloud of fear the day the law snatches away his mother. Normal. And you know if we start making regular visits to a particular residence, it will be noticed. Best case is to wait for the chance to—"

"—buy land out west," finished Hosea with a groan. "How many years will that be?"

Dutch put a hand on his shoulder and smiled until Hosea's eyes met his again. "My brother, I know your fears," he said earnestly. "Do you think I haven't had enough time with my thoughts these last days? But this is the right thing to do. Trust me. Let the boy grow up surrounded by people who love him. Teach him like we taught our boys. Reading, writing, the larger world. Expose him to towns and the wilds. Try to give him a passion for something other than robbing and shooting. And let him know he doesn't ever have to join us."

Hosea shrugged the hand off him, his eyes as dark and haunted as his voice. "At least I won't live to see John and Arthur take him to his first bank robbery."

Hosea returned to the party, leaving Dutch alone with his thoughts. He sighed and clawed a hand back through his hair. Hosea would come around, he always did eventually.


	12. Mary-Beth Gaskill and Karen Jones

Ages of characters involved in the chapter. Yes, I know some aren't strictly canon, but they fit my headcanon better dammit.

Mary-Beth: 18

Karen: 22

Arthur: 30

* * *

 **Mary-Beth Gaskill and Karen Jones**

 **1896**

* * *

"You're an idiot," hissed Karen. "You're gonna get us both killed one day."

Mary-Beth wrung her hands together, palms rubbing the golden pocketwatch to a warm glow. "Yes, maybe," she said. "There is that, but… you see—"

"You're an idiot," said Karen flatly.

"How was I supposed to know he was the mayor?"

Karen put out a hand for quiet and stuck her head outside the alley. "Alright, coast's clear." Karen's claws dug into Mary-Beth's sleeves and she stifled a cry as the larger girl dragged her across the street.

"And how was I supposed to know you were laying with him?" Mary-Beth wrenched at the grip, but Karen held strong.

"If you listened to me for once, instead of keeping your nose in a goddamned book and your hands in people's pockets, maybe you'd hear a thing or two," hissed Karen.

Mary-Beth grimaced. She was right. Like always. They found their way back to the hostel and their beds upstairs. Despite the late hour, no one was in bed yet. Mary-Beth safely tucked away the prizes she had stolen from the manor. Food and board for another month, stabling for Old Belle. Maybe even some more penny dreadfuls.

"And now Mr Vincent is convinced I was going to rob him, too," complained Karen.

Mary-Beth laughed. "Well, you were."

"Oh, very funny," she snapped. "We'll leave in the morning. Don't want Old Belle to—" Karen shushed her, listening hard. "You hear that?"

After a moment, Mary-Beth heard what stopped Karen in her tracks. A man was at the door downstairs, talking with the madam of the hostel, Miss Miller.

"...two girls," he said. "A blonde hussy and a brunette looked rather like a mouse."

"Shit," said Karen. She dashed across the room and dug her fingernails under the window. It opened with a muffed creak. "Guess we're leaving tonight," she said, sliding one leg out the window sill.

Swallowing hard, Mary-Beth slung her bag over her shoulder and followed. The drop was longer than she would've liked but, unfortunately, it wasn't the first time they had to climb out of second story windows. Despite Karen's love of drink, Mary-Beth landed them in more than a few scrapes that ended up driving them out of town. Mary-Beth stumbled when she hit the ground, wincing at the sharp pain in her ankle. Karen gave her a hand to her feet.

"Can you still walk?" she asked.

Mary-Beth waved the concern aside. "Get me on Belle and I'll be fine."

Every step ached through her leg, but they were soon enough at the stables. Mary-Beth leaned against the wall, hissing her breath, and Karen led out a dapple grey horse, their greatest expense and asset.

"Had to threaten the stableboy to get her saddled," said Karen. She grunted as she gave Mary-Beth a hand. "He'll recover in a few days."

Mary-Beth smiled against Karen's hair. She adjusted her seat behind Karen, wrapping her arms around her waist. Old Belle trotted her way down the muddy roads, snorting with displeasure at having been woken up so early.

"Now, that was a close one," said Karen with an uneasy laugh. "Been a while since we had to leg it out a window, huh?"

Mary-Beth winced. With every bounding step of Old Belle, her ankle flared as it bounced on her flank. "Could've gone smoother."

"The landing's the important part," said Karen smugly. In the last year, Mary-Beth didn't think Karen had ever missed her landing.

"You don't say? You—" Mary-Beth scrambled for a suitable insult, but her thoughts were stopped right quick.

"That's them! Thieves!" a man shouted behind them. "Stop them!"

Karen groaned and snapped the reins against their long-suffering horse. "Let's go, girl," she said.

Reluctantly, Old Belle broke into a gallop, tearing off down the darkened roads. The winding path ahead of them was illuminated with a sliver of silver moonlight. Mary-Beth redoubled her grip on Karen. She chanced a look behind them and spotted their pursuers. Three mounted lawmen and even Mr Vincent's son, Charles. They whipped the last ounce of speeds out of their horses, gaining fast on them.

"Can we run off the road?" called Mary-Beth over the wind. "Lose them in the woods?"

"Belle'll turn an ankle," said Karen. "And then where will we be?"

But Karen looked back to and swore, turning Old Belle down a ragged side path. She whinnied in complaint, but did as she was bid. Branches clawed at Mary-Beth's face, snapping off in her hair. She heard the other horses behind them struggle against the uneven trail, bucking on their reins. More and more distance edged between them, until their sounds drifted off into silence.

The forest broke at once, emptying them into a wide clearing with a single rundown homestead in the center. As they neared, Mary-Beth saw no one could have possibly lived there. Most of the glass panes were broken in the windows and the rails of the porch had half-rotted. Karen directed Old Belle to the back shed, calming her quickly and quietly.

Mary-Beth slid from the back. "Come on," she whispered. "It'll be safer to hide in the house."

With one more lingering pat on Old Belle's sweaty head, Karen followed Mary-Beth to the back door. Somewhere between the cold of the night and the dark excitement of the chase, the pain in her ankle had ceased. Karen held her revolver at her side as Mary-Beth pushed open the door. The house was completely dark and empty, scattered with bottles, every step creaking on the warped wooden floors. Maybe squatters had lived there once, but no one civilized, not for a long while.

Mary-Beth crunched across broken glass, poking her head into every room. Her heart pounded in her chest, but there was nothing to find other than more trash. "Al-Alright," she said. "I think we'll be alright here."

"I'd rather check upstairs, too," said Karen firmly. "We'll leave in the morning. Go on up to Nate or something."

Mary-Beth nodded. Gripping the wall for balance, she slid back into the living room. Here, the broken glass was the thickest, but she would be able to see if the lawmen were still chasing them. She didn't think so, but—

"Evening, miss," said a deep male voice.

Mary-Beth gasped and turned. A man sat in the blackest corner of the room, his hand over a knee drawn to his chest. From that hand, dangled a silvery steel revolver. It wasn't pointed at her, but it made her heart stop nonetheless. He looked a rough man, full of stubble and hair that touched his collar, but despite the hardness in his jaw and brow, there was something soft in his eyes.

And he hadn't killed her and Karen right off. There was that.

"H-Hello," said Mary-Beth. "We'll be out soon, in the morning, I swear—"

"Oh, don't worry about me," the man drawled. "From what I figured, we're both hiding from the same sorta people. What did you two young ladies do?"

Mary-Beth swallowed. She was suddenly aware of the sack sitting next to him. He wasn't just some handsome layabout. A robber. A gunslinger.

"I snuck into the mayor's house and raided it," she admitted. "Karen had planned to work over the mayor for a bigger take, but I messed it up. His son's right pissed at us."

The man chuckled, a low rumble in his chest that made Mary-Beth smile.

"What about you?" she asked, propelled by a sudden surge of bravery.

The man fixed her with a smile that didn't touch those soft eyes. "Me and some other fellas robbed a train few miles back. I drew off the lawmen while they escaped. Figured I oughta lie low a few hours."

"A… a train?" asked Mary-Beth.

"Are you afraid, miss?" he asked.

"No. I probably should be."

"Not of me," he said. "My gang and I are a good kinda sort. Well, best kinda sort you can get from outlaws and thieves."

Mary-Beth shrugged and found herself fluttering her eyelashes before she could stop herself. "I'm a thief," she said. Outlaws? A gang of them? Full of men like him?

The man laughed again. He slid his revolver back into a holster on his belt. "That so, miss?"

"Me and my friend," said Mary-Beth, "we could help you guys. She's damn good in a fight and both of us, we're good at thieving from people — pockets and houses and all sorts."

The man bit back another smile. "What do you know about outlaws, miss?"

Mary-Beth scrambled for words. "I know outlaws have camps, deep in the wilds. There must be a bunch of women's work that doesn't get done because men would rather go off drinking and robbing than do the dishes."

The man scratched the scruff on his chin. "Well, we did lose one of the girls recently. They join for a while but miss the cities and, of course, mosta the men aren't keen on paying working girls what lives with them."

Mary-Beth's eyes widened and she blushed. Since she had taken to life on her own, she prided herself on keeping afloat without selling herself. She shuffled from side to side, unable to meet the handsome outlaw's gaze. "That would be a sacrifice I'm willing to make, mister."

He shrugged. "You don't have to. Miss Grimshaw always wants a hand 'round with camp and, if you are a good little thief, then we can take you into town and see whatcha do."

Mary-Beth beamed. "Oh, I assure you—"

"Who're you talking to?" hissed Karen down the stairs.

Mary-Beth blushed and took a few steps back from the man. As Karen fell silent, she could feel her eyes flicking between them.

"Who's this?" demanded Karen. She clicked her revolver at him.

The man stood and walked into the light. It revealed the broadness of his shoulders, his worn and cracked leather coat, and the faint smile on his lips. He tipped his hat to Karen. "Arthur Morgan," he said. "You ladies want a ride outta here?"


End file.
